Eight Clouds
by ChibiMilly
Summary: Harry Mason had been trying for seven years to keep his mind off the events of 1983  and what he had done at Silent Hill Amusement Park. Obligation, however, has a way of dragging people in. A Silent HillxKiller 7 crossover.
1. Johannes Brahms

7 years, and the world hadn't stopped. Harry had that to be grateful for. Harry also had a daughter, which was still what he was most grateful for. Cheryl - no, Heather - was happy, Harry was happy, and the world kept on spinning as it was obligated to. He wrote a few more books. It was all so wonderfully normal. If it was a color, it would be a plain, inoffensive brown, tinged with a bit of red underneath for warmth inside it. Except for, of course, for his thoughts constantly returning to 1983. Tennessee Williams died, the 'Star Wars' defense plan was proposed, Samantha Smith wrote her unifying letter to the Soviet Union, and the Cold War was still going on. But Harry rarely thought about any of that. His thoughts were generally more local than national naturally as it was, but 1983 only intensified that. And his mind returned again and again to fog, demons, and a radio kept close by. A radio which Harry still kept, concealed, in his dressing bureau. He tested it once outside of Silent Hill. It played Dizzy Gillespie for him. He shut it off rather quickly.

Harry wished he could shake the want to find out about Silent Hill. That it was better to just keep it as a bad memory and leave it at that, you're happy now, don't need anything else. He had books to write, a child to care for. The world would keep on spinning and he would have to keep writing. There were obligations to keep.

But there Silent Hill remained, in his head, trying to hold tightly onto the forefront of his thoughts, often winning. He didn't have nightmares, not often anyway, but that fog, that crackling static, and the 'god' springing out of Alessa's body just sat there, quite comfortable, knowing their position in his thought was assured.

At the very least, Harry would tell himself, it was hard to learn about Silent Hill now, and with that in place, his survival instinct usually did the rest for him. He didn't have a connection into the cult, he didn't even have a connection to anyone who lived in Silent Hill. A few times, he was tempted to look up a phone number for the town, call one of them, any one of them. A bait shop, a paper mill, a toy store. But he always managed to restrain himself. For 7 years, he restrained himself.

What started the breakdown of that instinct was a package, recieved about a month ago. A plain manilla package, thin, no return address. The weight felt a bit familiar to Harry, and he opened it to find a wax record. Compositions by Johannes Brahms.

Turned over, the album sheath had green ink painted onto it, spelling two unmistakable words.

'Good Cop'.

It only increased from there. Harry recieved another package, much smaller, featuring Cybil's badge. Another package, her sunglasses. Another one, a newspaper with her obituary. And never a return address.

It got to the point where it seeped back into his dreams. Into a very small, very quiet nightmare. The only things in it were Harry, a void of blackness around him, and a gun on the floor.

He picked it up, and the green ink was there once more, saying

'Hers.'

When he awoke, he checked his drawer four times consecutively to make sure the gun was still there.

It was understandable, why Harry's survival instinct faded into that background. It was understandable, why he was looking into travel plans to Brahms. Understandable, why he was finding a babysitter for Heather.

Understandable why he was driving a car there right now.

"It's not Silent Hill," he would tell himself, "It's okay."

---

Maine. Garcian had been there before. Not a bad place. Quiet, the world turned at a slow, even pace there. Rarely did anything newsmaking come out of there, and it seemed the residents liked it that way, for the most part. Two major things to come out of Maine in the last century both involved the Cold War. Samantha Smith, in 1983, and Margaret Chase Smith in the 50s, taking a stand against Joseph McCarthy. Usually, it wasn't somewhere Garcian would go. Assignments would carry him to New York City, Washington D.C, Tokyo - big cities with big names. If you were out for revenge for some bastard in a place with more forest than there would ever be city, you generally couldn't afford to hire the Killer 7.

However, this job was different. More of a control situation. Instead of taking down some high-name figure with too much influence for his own good, it was neutralizing a runaway thief. Someone had gotten their hands on high risk information. So high risk, apparently, that his clients couldn't be bothered to tell him what it looked like. "You'll know it when you see it," they said, and that was it.

For this, Maine at least made sense. A good place to hide, Garcian thought. Little communication, few people to recognize you, plenty of places to disappear to. So long as you didn't stay around the towns, you were pretty much in the clear.

There was a plane touchdown in Portland, and from there, he had a long drive ahead. About 3 hours, at least.

Still, no trouble. The job would be done today.

---

Harry quickly wondered what the hell he was doing, and how he thought he'd even manage to do it in the first place. He didn't know anything about investigation. Back in Silent Hill, getting from one piece of information to another usually involved running around blind for awhile until someone or something came out and pointed him the way. He didn't even have a return address for the letters. His only lead were the facts that Cybil was dead and he was getting things that belonged to her. Cybil worked in Brahms, that's where he went, and that's where he was now.

Stuck with her gun, her badge, and her sunglasses, and nothing to go on. Just feelings of nervousness and starting to think he should go back home.

He'd only gotten one idea, and that was to check the police station - which he did. All that resulted in was some additional guilt. Asked one of the officers for Cybil Bennett, said he was an author, followed by a lie that he once got a letter from her on his books, and wanted to meet her, since he was writing a cop novel. Harry got told what he already knew, that Cybil was dead, and that the circumstances were strange - found her at the Silent Hill amusement park, shot. Couldn't connect the finger prints back to anybody. A shame of a death.

And that was all Harry got. Just him, swimming in his sins, and thanking the police officer. Leaving before his stomach turned too far and would make him vomit out a confession.

Harry wanted to leave. But that stone called obligation sat in his stomach, and kept him chained to Brahms. He didn't know what else to do, he didn't know where to go, he didn't know where to even start. He was a writer. Not a detective.

He stayed there for the rest of the day, simply because he felt he should. Was this supposed to make him exorcise what he had done? Is that all the packages had been about? Bring Harry up here, make him stay for awhile, make him feel awful, force him to remember?

That would have required for someone to have known he had done it at all, though. And who was witness to it? Nobody.

Which, somehow, made Harry feel even worse.

Restless, sometime around 11 at night, Harry left the hotel room he got just hours ago, carrying nothing but his clothes, his wallet, Cybil's belongings, the flashlight and radio he brought all the way up, and a map to Brahms. He looked over it carefully, finding the graveyard, and trudging towards it.

Obligation was like gravity. It didn't matter how far away you were from it, it would still push and pull on you.

It took some minor trespassing and bumping in the dark, before Harry remembered to turn on his flashlight. He walked, slow, carefully, wanting to be as respectful as possible to this mass of dead strangers. They were important to other people and he should treat them as such.

After twenty more minutes of walking, frustration, and doing his best not to think about 1983, Harry finally found her. Cybil Bennett, 1955-1983. 'Made the world go right', said the inscription.

Harry wondered what to do.

He ended up just saying "I'm sorry."

One by one he pulled them out. Cybil's badge, Cybil's sunglasses, and Cybil's gun. Laid them all on her gravestone, and, truth be told, felt just a little better. He should have done this years ago. The guilt of even daring to be here, the feeling that he didn't deserve to be at her grave still held him close, wrapped him up like thick, impenetrable smoke, but still. He was giving back what was hers. He was doing the right thing.

He felt a little better.

He was still at a loss as to what he was really meant to do, or who had sent those packages, obligation still hanging on his shoulders, making his feet drag. But Harry had done something, at least.

As he turned, getting ready to leave, the flashlight turned with him, revealing a small flyer just to the side of Cybil's grave.

Like in Silent Hill, something came out and gave him directions. It was so obvious. So clear where he had to go now. Not what he had to do, but he knew what his destination was.

He hesitated for only a moment. He shouldn't go. But he owed it to Cybil.

Harry took the gun back, and spoke to the grave again. "I'm sorry. I need to borrow it for just a little longer, Cybil. I promise I'll bring it back. I'm sorry!"

With that, Harry tore out of the graveyard, sprinting like he hadn't done in seven years, his destination firmly burned into those frontal lobes.

The flyer to the side stayed at Cybil's grave, motionless. Though faded, enough was still clear to see what it was advertising.

"Silent Hill Amusement Park". 


	2. How soon is now

At least it wasn't foggy.

Harry didn't trust Silent Hill, that much was obvious. But he didn't particularly trust it to be friendly towards cars, either. He crashed his jeep last time - could have died. Thought Silent Hill might just do that again, and make it stick the second time around.

For better or for worse, Harry drove only close to the town, and made the rest of the trek on foot. But, still.

At least it wasn't foggy.

It was damn dark though, since he, in his rush, came over from Brahm's graveyard immediately, sensibilities be damned. It didn't take much more than a few minutes of starting to put his feet into Silent Hill that, in hindsight, that was likely a decision that could have used more common sense.

He was here now, though. The streets weren't disappearing into nowhere, it wasn't foggy, it was just dark.

All he had to do was make his way to the amusement park, and then...and then...

And then.

And then what, he didn't have any idea.

He felt lost. Again. Silently calling himself an idiot. He didn't have anything to go on but a flyer that inexplicably was beside Cybil's grave. Still, that's how he got through things last time, right? Just move one point to another after getting little bits of information?

And look how that turned out. It lead to him being here a second time.

But he didn't have anything else, and he really didn't have any other choice.

First, a flick of a button, giving him clear light. At the very least, Harry had the forethought to bring extra batteries. Kept them in that breast pocket with the flashlight.

Then, a flick of the switch of his radio, tensing a little. The last time he turned it on, it was in Portland, and gave him about 5 seconds of Jazz before he turned it off.

Dead air now.

Taking a deep breath, Harry forced his feet to listen to that obligation, to make them push forward, whether it was a good idea or not.

---

The car was moving at a comfortable forty miles per hour. Nothing too fast, nothing lurching, a speed that felt just right. A calm, controlled speed, that had a destination in mind, but didn't have to be there as soon as possible. Just that luxurious, rare, cruising speed, that went perfectly in time with the turn of the world.

The job wouldn't be getting done as early as Garcian would have liked, but at the very least, Brahms wasn't a total dead end. So the target wasn't in town. But, he had been there just recently.

It was hard to miss him, this far north in Maine. An asian man in his early 20s, dressed sharp in a pressed, pinstripe black suit and tie? He stood out here, even if he wasn't wearing that pricy outfit. Maine wasn't particularly well known for having a diverse population, especially once you got to the rural counties. Of course, this meant Garcian likely stood out even more. A tall black man, in a spotless white suit, with a pure yellow tie? And a purple undershirt to complete the ensemble. Two out of place men, one looking for the other. One person in a gas station saw that asian man recently, another in a general store. Told Garcian that the only closeby town was Silent Hill, and there wasn't a hell of a lot there right now. Wasn't tourist season, and even people who lived there didn't seem to like being around the area.

Garcian let himself rest, read up on Silent Hill, get a map, and pick out the possible hiding spots of his target.

Once night came around, Garcian made his approach towards Silent Hill, at that comfortable, perfect forty miles per hour.

He saw a parked car, just left on the side of the road.

He passed it by.

---

It would be nice if he could relax, Harry thought. The radio hadn't gone off once yet. That was supposed to be a good sign. But it only served to put Harry more on edge, more aware of the inconsistencies of the town. Fog or no fog, the town seemed deserted once more. There were cars, and houses, and all other signs that there should be some life around here, but no. Lights out, everywhere. No sounds, not anywhere.

It was a near perfect void, is what it was. There was darkness, and silence, and Harry. The only thing obstructing it from being that void was the existence of the town itself. Buildings, cars, all mute, all unmoving. If you didn't have a watch, for all one knew, time stopped when it came in contact with Silent Hill.

What wasn't helping was that Harry had been trying to run the entire way to the amusement park. He hadn't gotten in any better shape since 1983 - he was, generally, physically the same, but was still slowed down some by the gravity of age. Harry was 39 now, and sprinting still wasn't anything close to his forte. Standing still was not advised. Sitting down even less so. But he had to.

The radio would give him the signal if he absolutely needed to leave, right? Right.

Hopefully.

There Harry sat, on the footsteps of a convenience store, gasping for breath, his sight going over the town in front of him, again and again. This didn't make any sense. Where was the fog? Where were the monsters? Not that he actually wanted either to appear, but. It didn't match up. If he had been getting packages from nowhere and no one, all concerning Cybil, then the source was, in a likeliness, Silent Hill.

So why had it been so easy so far? Why wasn't there anything taunting him, teasing him - or even cutting off the path to the amusement park? Why were the only signs just that same lack of electricity, and that same lack of people?

Harry didn't want to think about it. Thinking about it felt like he was just inviting trouble. Asking for the subjects of those nightmares to come back into vision, to put his older body to the test once more. To push him to be panicky, worried, and unsure of every next step.

He took another deep breath and picked himself up, turning and pushing aside the door to the convenience store. He should get something to drink, stop, calm down. Maybe a gatorade.

The bell to the door dinged a few times, Harry letting himself into the mess of a store.

The radio remained mute.

---

The perfect forty miles per hour was slowing, down to a sensible thirty miles per hour, a questionable twenty miles per hour, an insulting ten miles per hour, and then an agonizing five miles per hour.

"Son of a bitch," Garcian muttered to himself, pulling the car to park far earlier than he would have liked. Barely into the actual town of Silent Hill, and the headlights were becoming rapidly useless. The engine came to a stop, the door pushed open gently, and getting a firmer grip on his suitcase, Garcian stepped out, locked the car, and shut the door.

He pointed his eyes up, with the same expression he had on for the last few hours, his eyes perfectly still and natural, focusing on nothing, giving nothing more than a quick moment of his attention to the sky.

Fine, expensive boots gently pushed against the pavement.

He wasn't going to waste time wondering where the fog came from. 


End file.
